


Nameday Love

by Aryas_aria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: Arya's birthday, Existing Relationship, F/M, Jon is a Targaryen, sweetness though, they're in the middle of wars and battles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23172355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria
Summary: The Starks are back in winterfell and intent on celebrating Arya's birthday despite looming threats
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	Nameday Love

It’s so warm in her chambers, she doesn’t even notice that Jon has slipped away. She’s snuggled in her bed, naked save for his shirt from the day before, when the creak of Bran’s wheelchair causes her rest to break. Opening her eyes fully, she clutches the furs closer as she sees Sansa wheeling Bran’s chair, Rickon carrying a tray, and Jon huddled behind them all in the corner. “What’s this,” she asks, sleep still heavy in her voice.

“Happy name day,” Rickon says easily, as if they aren’t in the middle of one war and on the cusp of another, as if it’s the Winterfell of old and Robb and their parents are just down the hall, as if she isn’t in their cousin, the King’s bed.

“What?” Arya asks, not because she doesn’t comprehend, but because surely her family has more important things to do that fawn over her. Surely Cersei or the Night King or _anything_ must come before her.

“You’re sixteen now,” Sansa says by way of explaining, as if Arya herself doesn’t know her age. “A woman grown by all accounts. It should be celebrated; _you_ should be celebrated.” Sansa’s name day had been earlier, back when Arya was still at the Twins pretending to be a kitchen maid, and Rickon’s had been soon after, when she was taking back Riverrun, Bran’s would be in a moon’s turn, one year and one month younger than her, and Jon’s name day…it would be in four months by her father’s accounts—if they even made it that far. She’s never been one to make a fuss, but if this is the last name day they’d all celebrate, she’ll be on her best behavior for them.

“Thank you,” Arya says quietly, she takes the tray Rickon holds and sets it on a table before giving him a hug. “I love you,” she says into his hair, the tale tell sign of crying causing her throat to go dry. She tries to swallow it down.

“Here,” Sansa takes a bundle from Jon, for his part content to watch the scene unfold from the background, and places it in Arya’s lap. It’s a bit hard to unwrap with her trying to make sure the furs cover her, but she manages it with one hand. None of them are stupid, they all know what she and Jon must do in his bed, but she won’t tempt fate by having them see her disheveled state. “From Rickon and me,” Sansa supplies as a long, thick blue gown unfurls from the wrapping, it’s beautiful, rich color seeming to glow when contrasted with the black fur trimming it.

“I didn’t know you could sew Rickon,” she says lightly to mask her pleasure and get a laugh from them all.

“I killed a shadow cat and gave the fur to Sansa,” Rickon supplies proudly, and he reminds her so much of Robb in that moment. Robb, who used to laugh with her and tease her, Robb who used to pretend he didn’t see when she and Bran would sneak blueberry tarts from the kitchens (save to have a few himself), Robb who didn’t mind when she whacked at him with her stick because she wanted to be a knight for true. She can’t think of Robb now; it isn’t fair to Rickon. Rickon who is his own person, Rickon, who loves her with all his heart, Rickon who grew up on Skagos afraid and alone. She has to be happy for his sake, give him some last good memories of family if this is truly the end.

“It’s beautiful, really. Thank you, both of you. I love it,” she musters as much emotion as she can without running away with it.

“I have a gift for you as well,” Bran says, but something in his tone makes her know that this gift is not solely from Bran her brother. He hands her a small, carefully wrapped package. Inside, the most beautiful Valyrian steel dagger gleams back at her and she wonders if it will become Jon and Bran’s habit to gift her weapons. The dragon bone hilt feels rigid and right in her hand as she lifts it up to inspect. “The dagger meant to end my life,” he whispers, but they all hear it in the quiet of the room.

“Where did you get this Bran,” Rickon lets a bit of apprehension seep into his voice.

“Littlefinger gave it to me, spewing half-truths on the blade belonging to Tyrion and the like,” Bran says dismissively. It’s a wonder the man tried to lie, what with some knowledge of Bran’s particular power being evident for all to see now.

“All his gifts are poison,” Sansa says, venom in her own words, “if he gave it to you, it came with a price.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bran says assured, “he can’t play a game if I refuse to participate. I know he lied to mother, I know it was Joffrey who sent the assassin after me, not Tyrion. He cannot lie, not to me.” For all his words, it is the knowledge that Joffrey had been the one to order Bran’s death that set Arya’s teeth on edge. Not for the first time, she envies the pigeon pie that killed that infernal Lannister spawn. _I_ _should have run him through with his sword the day I wrestled it from him on the Trident. I might have saved us all some grief_ she thinks wryly.

“It’s beautiful,” Arya says to please her brother. She knows that in its own way, a gift from Bran is as poisonous as a gift from Littlefinger. _Is it Bran or the Three Eyed Raven who wants me to have another blade?_ Still, the boyish smile Bran gives her is enough to push all those thoughts aside for now.

“And now for my present,” Jon comes to sit on the bed beside her. He hands her a small parcel, tied with string. “It’s not conventional, but I thought you’d like it.” At first glance, it looks to be a book that tumbles out, but upon further inspection, she sees that it’s a journal, worn around the edges from use. When she opens the front cover carefully, small drawings on thin parchment fall out, some colored in with crude markings and strange dyes, others plain and hastily done, at least a dozen in all. “I had some wilding women draw them for me before…when I was with the free folk,” he says by way of explanation. It sends a shot of tenderness up her spine and she almost gets so lost in it that she cannot continue. But he turns the first page of the journal for her until she is forced to see an old dried flower sandwiched between its pages, Jon’s script at the bottom of the page displaying the word “blood-blooms.” The journal is filled with dozens more flowers and their names: frostfires, coldsnaps, moonbloom, and the like. The tears she has been holding back all morning finally spill over when she realizes that Jon has been collecting this since before he died, when he didn’t even know when or if he would see her again. It touches her heart in a way that words feel inadequate to describe.

“Oh Jon,” she sighs softly into the air, his arms wrapping around her at once as she snuggles into him. She sees her siblings’ presence vanish from the room quietly, and she wants to call out to them, to tell them to stay and be a family while they still have time, but the words don’t come.

“I thought you’d like this,” he says into her hair, kissing it, “I didn’t mean to make you cry love.”

“I do like it, I love it. It’s just…I missed you so much all those years we spent apart. It was a longing, a…almost a hunger inside me to be with you. I know you love me but, how can I say it…I never knew you yearned like I did. Does that make sense?” She worries her lip between her teeth.

He tugs at her chin until she releases the lip, kissing her full on the mouth, slow but firm. “It’s not a competition,” he whispers gently, “but of the two of us, I’m the one that died for love. Love of you, I might add.”

Despite herself and the terrible joke that it is, she laughs as he smiles. “You died thinking me your sister, it’s different now that we’ve…now that we’re cousins. I just _missed_ you then, it was so simple. I didn’t miss you as a brother and certainly not as a love, but just as Jon, the one person who I knew would want me no matter what, but getting you back seemed as impossible as saving father.”

“I… I have always wanted you Arya, and even though the way of it has changed, never doubt that you have been the light of my life since the moment you were born. At first, I fully meant to send these to you in letters I intended to write you while you were in King’s Landing, but then it became a sort of crutch when you disappeared. In truth, many things made me think of you, but I collected the flowers in hopes that one day I’d be able to give this to you.” She kisses him again after his declaration, but it’s wet from her tears. She’s so happy, and despite everything going on around them, this morning has been so tender and sweet that it makes her heart full.

“I don’t know how to be sixteen Jon, nor a lovesick maid,” she laughs. “I was nine and then I was ninety, I had to grow up so fast when...when…when winter came for us. But this—you,” she says lifting up the journal, “it makes me feel like I’ll be young forever, _yours_ forever, it makes me dream of spring. Thank you,” she finishes, giving him another kiss because she can and because kissing him always makes her feel like she can take on the world. “Thank you for giving me hope, thank you for giving me you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally wrote this to be part of Starks Will Come Again but it didn't fit, but when I saw the prompt for Arya's birthday on tumblr, I decided to post it for today instead. The idea for the journal of flowers was taken from Jonryatrash's tumblr headcanons of Jon missing Arya (because I love all of them so much and might just write fics to go with all of them ok bye)


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